much cheaper. Also, I alwayshad eating disorders, and you didn’t have to eat while on methedrine. I could go for about three days on just milk.
Just lived with no boundaries, anything, with any man, any time. I stole drugs from people who had cancer. I had elective dental surgery just to get Percodan. All the while, I was putting away close to a fifth a day. I was a real bar drinker. This friend and I were there almost every night. We were just legendary. Everyone loved us, and we were both hilarious women, with no boundaries and just devoted to each other.
Then, when I was twenty-three, my dad got sick with brain cancer, and the world just came crashing down on us. It gave us total license to begin each day with a drink if we needed it. We were eventually living with my dad, taking care of him. My younger brother and I alternated taking care of Dad, so if it was your night on, you stayed with him in this little cabin we had, and if it was your night off, you got to go to the bar. We had a little trailer outside. It was so disgusting. It was about the size of a queen-size bed, and we took all of our boyfriends and girlfriends there. We were so drunk and hungover, but it was like an oasis because inside the cabin our very, very beloved father was losing his mind. He basically had cancer of the everything. So he died and my consumption continued, even grew. Seriously hungover, in blackouts. I tried to quit drinking with my friend sometimes, and we’d go for a couple of weeks and we’d feel so great. Our minds would be clear, and we’d be horrified. We’d count up what we might drink typically, and the calories involved. Once we figured that if we were drinking a fifth each day and a few beers, we figured we could each eat a chocolate layer cake with the same amount of calories.
I had two books out by the time I was twenty-nine:
Hard Laughter
and
Rosie
. I had supplemented my writing by giving tennis lessons and cleaning houses and doing whatever jobs I could get. My books had done great critically but hadn’t sold enough for me to feel secure.
Rosie
did pretty well. It sold ten thousand copies, which was pretty great back then, but I couldn’t get any self-esteem going. My dad died when I was twenty-five, and I don’t really remember a lot of the next five years. I was writing. I was becoming famous. I was still in horrible relationships with men who mostly didn’t love me but found me mesmerizing, and who discovered that I loved to useand drink just like they did.
I started disgracing myself as a writer. The worst experience I can tell you about is at the age of thirty or so: I was doing some sort of benefit in the city at a Basque restaurant. I believe it was a library benefit. The restaurant had long tables with green generic bottles of wine and family-style eating. I was supposed to speak as soon as dessert was served, but I started getting bombed. I’d gotten stoned before I got there on some really good pot. I was stoned and floating and good, and after two glasses of wine, I was fabulous. Then I had six, seven, eight, and I was wasted. All the people at my table were getting very worried because I was getting loud and kind of weepy. I started thinking about my dad. I hadn’t written a speech. I just thought that I’m at my best with a crowd and a few too many.
There was a problem, though, when I wanted to order one last bottle of wine, and people around me were getting that very nervous, slightly angry look that I became very familiar with. The waiter said, “Do you guys want a bottle of wine or don’t you?” They all said, “No,” but I said, “I would. Please bring a bottle.” That was humiliating in itself. The waiter poured me a glass. I raised it to my lips, and it was the last thing I remembered. I went into a full-fledged blackout. I came to on stage, barely able to keep my balance, like Truman Capote at the University of Maryland, when he was staggering around saying, “I’m an
Just lived with no boundaries, anything, with any man, any time. I stole drugs from people who had cancer. I had elective dental surgery just to get Percodan. All the while, I was putting away close to a fifth a day. I was a real bar drinker. This friend and I were there almost every night. We were just legendary. Everyone loved us, and we were both hilarious women, with no boundaries and just devoted to each other.
Then, when I was twenty-three, my dad got sick with brain cancer, and the world just came crashing down on us. It gave us total license to begin each day with a drink if we needed it. We were eventually living with my dad, taking care of him. My younger brother and I alternated taking care of Dad, so if it was your night on, you stayed with him in this little cabin we had, and if it was your night off, you got to go to the bar. We had a little trailer outside. It was so disgusting. It was about the size of a queen-size bed, and we took all of our boyfriends and girlfriends there. We were so drunk and hungover, but it was like an oasis because inside the cabin our very, very beloved father was losing his mind. He basically had cancer of the everything. So he died and my consumption continued, even grew. Seriously hungover, in blackouts. I tried to quit drinking with my friend sometimes, and we’d go for a couple of weeks and we’d feel so great. Our minds would be clear, and we’d be horrified. We’d count up what we might drink typically, and the calories involved. Once we figured that if we were drinking a fifth each day and a few beers, we figured we could each eat a chocolate layer cake with the same amount of calories.
I had two books out by the time I was twenty-nine:
Hard Laughter
and
Rosie
. I had supplemented my writing by giving tennis lessons and cleaning houses and doing whatever jobs I could get. My books had done great critically but hadn’t sold enough for me to feel secure.
Rosie
did pretty well. It sold ten thousand copies, which was pretty great back then, but I couldn’t get any self-esteem going. My dad died when I was twenty-five, and I don’t really remember a lot of the next five years. I was writing. I was becoming famous. I was still in horrible relationships with men who mostly didn’t love me but found me mesmerizing, and who discovered that I loved to useand drink just like they did.
I started disgracing myself as a writer. The worst experience I can tell you about is at the age of thirty or so: I was doing some sort of benefit in the city at a Basque restaurant. I believe it was a library benefit. The restaurant had long tables with green generic bottles of wine and family-style eating. I was supposed to speak as soon as dessert was served, but I started getting bombed. I’d gotten stoned before I got there on some really good pot. I was stoned and floating and good, and after two glasses of wine, I was fabulous. Then I had six, seven, eight, and I was wasted. All the people at my table were getting very worried because I was getting loud and kind of weepy. I started thinking about my dad. I hadn’t written a speech. I just thought that I’m at my best with a crowd and a few too many.
There was a problem, though, when I wanted to order one last bottle of wine, and people around me were getting that very nervous, slightly angry look that I became very familiar with. The waiter said, “Do you guys want a bottle of wine or don’t you?” They all said, “No,” but I said, “I would. Please bring a bottle.” That was humiliating in itself. The waiter poured me a glass. I raised it to my lips, and it was the last thing I remembered. I went into a full-fledged blackout. I came to on stage, barely able to keep my balance, like Truman Capote at the University of Maryland, when he was staggering around saying, “I’m an
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